


Like Tomorrow Won't Arrive

by Drag0nst0rm



Series: Round and Round and Round They Go [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Groundhog Day, Happy Ending, Humor, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: The first time Feanaro wakes up and finds time has reset, he thinks it's a blessing.The fifth time it happens, he thinks Nolofinwe is far more accident prone than he'd ever realized.By the thirteenth time it happens, he's starting to realize this might be more serious a problem than he can solve on his own.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Series: Round and Round and Round They Go [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2172681
Comments: 59
Kudos: 157





	Like Tomorrow Won't Arrive

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hamilton.
> 
> Those of you who read my outline of this in the comment section of Day 51 (And Counting) will notice that a few slight changes have been made.

He didn’t mean to do it.

He meant to draw his sword, true, he meant to hold it against Nolofinwe’s throat, but Feanaro truly had not meant to kill his half-brother, only to threaten him, only to make him stop speaking, stop spewing the lie that Feanaro’s desire to leave made him an ungrateful, traitorous son -

But he had not meant to kill him.

There had been the sound of something breaking, he still didn’t know what, and he had jumped, and Nolofinwe had jumped, and his hands had moved just so, without him willing them, and Nolofinwe had turned and -

And blood. So much blood.

Nolo had crumpled to the ground, and Feanaro had fallen with him, weapon discarded, because he had not seen Nolofinwe bleed since Nolo was small enough to toddle up to him with scraped hands and say, _Why is it red, why does it hurt, what does it taste like, why can’t I lick it, does mine look like yours, does everyone’s, will you kiss it better like Atar does -_

Make it better, Atar, he thought wildly, make it better, make it better, make it better -

He woke up in near darkness, and it took him a moment to realize that it was only because someone had drawn the curtains in his bedroom to block out the light of the Trees.

He couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. Memory had vanished the moment the light in Nolofinwe’s eyes had, but that seemed fair enough. 

He wanted that oblivion to come back.

He was a little surprised that he had been allowed back into his own room, but he wasn’t sure what else there was to do. There was no precedent for a crime like his, no words for it.

He could craft one, he supposed.

He found he had no taste for it.

He had no taste for anything, he found. Rising from the bed seemed pointless. Planning seemed pointless. Weeping seemed pointless.

Nolofinwe was not Miriel. He had not been weary of life; he had been afire with it. He would return as soon as Namo allowed it, Feanaro was sure of it.

It still would not change the fact that Feanaro had - that Feanaro had -

What Atar must think of him now. What his sons must. What Nolofinwe must be thinking, somewhere in the Halls. What Arafinwe must be thinking, wherever he was.

He did not want to think anymore. He shoved himself up from the bed and moved blindly to the door. Only once he opened it did it occur to him there might be guards, but there was no one there. Around the exits of the house instead, perhaps.

He moved down the stairs and toward the kitchen, routine compelling him when nothing else could. Food was not his preferred medium, but he could work in there, and he doubted he’d be allowed near a forge. Work would help. Work always kept his mind quiet, and he had never needed it more.

There was noise in the kitchen, he realized belatedly. Makalaure was singing, the same song he had been singing yesterday, he thought.

The tune was bright and cheerful, and far, far too much for him today, but at least Makalaure was here. He was here and singing, so perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, there was still someone in this world who did not hate him too much.

He pushed the door open. The kitchen was warm and cheerful, just as it ever was, and Makalaure was brewing tea on the stove as he sang. Maitimo was brushing through the knots in Tyelkormo’s hair as they waited for it to be ready, the constant tension in Maitimo’s eyes made just an inch looser by the song.

It was the exact scene he had walked in on yesterday.

He clutched the doorframe for support.

The tension in Maitimo’s eyes instantly returned. “Atar? Are you alright?”

Tyelkormo was on his feet in a moment, yanking his hair free in the process, so that he could offer Feanaro a bracing arm. Feanaro took it, barely knowing what he was doing, and let himself be led to a chair.

“Your - uncle,” he said, voice halting, hardly knowing what to say.

“The petition before the king today,” Maitimo said, nodding along. “Has there been ill news of it?”

Today. The petition was today.

He closed his eyes.

“No,” he managed. “No. Or if there is, I have hardly had time to hear it; I have only just risen from bed. It was - a dream. Only a dream.”

“Foresight?” Makalaure asked cautiously.

Feanaro shook his head. “That has never been my gift.” 

But. 

It had been like no other dream he’d ever had. Was this what others meant when they spoke of foresight? If so, he thought very little of their descriptive abilities; this was not at all what they had led him to expect.

“I will be cautious today,” he decided, just in case, and he did not miss the looks his two oldest sons exchanged. “I do understand the meaning of the word,” he said dryly, beginning to recover himself. “I will listen to all your wise words, Maitimo, and the sword will remain behind. My tongue will be sharp enough, I think.”

“I have no doubt,” Maitimo said in considerable relief.

Feanaro raised an eyebrow but let it go.

“Two sons at least thou hast to follow thy words!”

“I will follow any words you have for me, my king,” Feanaro said voice pitched to ring out in the hall as he made his entrance. “Speak just one against the matter, and I will be silent and content myself here. But until then, I must ask why it be such treason to say that we should follow you, and you alone, and depart from here if the Valar will not allow it.”

He couldn’t say he was surprised that his words prompted a general shouting match, though he did grieve the headache it immediately seemed to give his lord father.

It was also not a surprise that the king called for a recess early in the hopes of restoring calm, or that Feanaro immediately found Nolofinwe at his elbow once he had.

“Provocative as always, brother,” Nolofinwe said with a too sharp smile.

It was very, very hard to see the little boy he’d dreamed of now.

“You were two steps from charging me with treason,” he snapped. _“Half-_ brother. Do you consider yourself alone provoked?”

“You have been openly riling the people - “

If he stayed here a moment longer, he was going to punch Nolofinwe in the face, he realized in a moment of still rage that could almost pass for calmness.

He did not dare. Not today.

He turned his back on Nolofinwe and tried to walk away, but his half-brother’s hand caught his arm.

“Get off,” he hissed as he wrenched his arm away, but Nolofinwe’s balance must have been just exactly wrong because the movement left him falling forward, and then -

Feanaro awoke in his own bed. A hint of light crept in between the curtains. If he listened very closely, he could just hear Makalaure singing downstairs.

He was singing the same song as yesterday.

Or, rather, he suspected, the same song as today. In a manner of speaking.

Make it better, he had thought in desperate prayer, and while it had been directed at his father, who had no power to actually do so, apparently one of the Valar had overheard and decided to help anyway. A bribe, perhaps, to gain his silence in this matter.

Except. Except if that was all they wanted, then surely he would have been discredited enough with so much blood staining his hands, so perhaps -

Perhaps there was one Vala he would have to be at least begrudgingly grateful to.

Fine.

He would just. Get up. Try again. The last time had been a freak accident; surely nothing would go wrong again.

“Feanaro! Walk with me!” his half-brother called as they exited the audience chamber, and, no, absolutely not, he was not taking that risk.

It wasn’t rational, he admitted to himself, there was no reason Nolofinwe would be at particular risk today just because of what had . . . happened . . . the first time, but he would allow of it himself just this once.

“Not today,” he called back, and he picked up his pace.

But the footsteps just hastened behind him, and then there was a stuttered sound as Nolofinwe tripped, and -

Feanaro awoke in his own bed and blinked at the ceiling.

When Nolofinwe had been learning to walk, Feanaro’d had very little patience for helping to teach him.. Apparently he should have put the effort in. It would have saved a great deal of trouble now.

“Feanaro, I would speak with you. What you said - “

“A moment,” Feanaro said, holding his hand up to call a halt to Nolofinwe’s words. He was very careful not to actually let it touch. “I feel this conversation would be best held sitting down.”

Nolofinwe swallowed any objections he might have had and inclined his head.

Feanaro led the way, very slowly and carefully, to a small collection of chairs. They sat down.

Feanaro had to admit that he didn’t actually hear most of what Nolofinwe said after that because he was too busy scanning for anyone who might knock into said chairs, but he was sure he’d heard it all before anyway.

It still didn’t help anything when someone on the mezzanine above them knocked over a vase and it tumbled down onto Nolofinwe’s head.

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

“Tyelkormo,” he asked when he reached the kitchen, “when you hunted with Orome, did he ever say anything about Vaire?”

All three of his sons who were present turned to blink at him.

Tyelkormo recovered first. “Sure,” he said. “He had a story or two. Why?”

Maitimo and Makalaure were still looking at him in concern. He wondered for a moment if his intensity had perhaps stepped over the line into becoming unhinged.

“How much does fate resist being rewoven?”

Tyelkormo considered this. “I . . . has anyone ever tried?”

“Yes,” Feanaro said, and he left for the audience.

It seemed he was a pioneer in his field once again.

Fate had to be the problem, he was convinced. Once was choice, twice was chance, but four times -

Pardon.

Five times.

He had been quite happy to insult Nolofinwe’s brain; he had not actually ever wanted a chance to see it.

Feanaro awoke in his bed.

It occurred to him how much better that prospect would be if Nerdanel were in it. He could very much use her wisdom now, or at the very least, the comfort of her arms.

(The bone had shattered and landed on his robe, a bit of _something_ landing in his mouth - )

But Nerdanel was visiting Mahtan.

And had been for the past - ten years.

He should get up, he thought. Try again.

Only what he had been trying wasn’t working. It was time to try something new.

“I have twisted my ankle,” he announced when he walked into the kitchen. Well. Hobbled. Hopefully convincingly. “I do not think I shall be able to walk to the palace today.”

“I’ll call a palanquin,” Maitimo said instantly, dropping his brush to head out the door.

“Sit down,” Tyelkormo said at the same time, “let me wrap it for you - Makalaure, do you think you could sing away some of the pain - ?”

On second thought, he really hadn’t thought this one through.

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

“I’ve broken my ankle,” he announced when he hobbled into the kitchen through gritted teeth and very real pain.

Nolofinwe’s death yesterday had been - graphic. This was nothing, he tried to convince himself.

Although if this was the day he managed to fix things, he was still going to punch Nolofinwe for making him put up with this for the next few months.

“You should postpone the audience,” Tyelkormo said reluctantly as he looked it over and confirmed it was very broken. 

It had better be. Feanaro had taken his best hammer to it.

“Very wise,” he managed.

At least it had worked.

Feanaro woke up in his own bed. He was not in pain.

He didn’t think anyone would understand quite how disappointed he was by this.

Maybe, he conceded reluctantly, it was time to get someone else involved.

It took ten days to convince him that no message could reach the Valar before Nolofinwe managed to get himself killed. Or at least they could not be convinced to respond to a message by then. Whatever helpful spirit had prevented disaster the first day apparently could not be prevailed upon but do anything but rewind time when Nolofinwe snapped his own neck on the stairs.

Again. Feanaro was starting to consider tying his half-brother to a chair for own good. For both of their goods, really.

Actually.

Come to think of it.

At the very least, it would be therapeutic.

It was surprisingly easy to kidnap Nolofinwe. All he had to was hire a palanquin with instructions to tell Nolofinwe that Anaire had hired it on his behalf and then to take Nolofinwe to Feanaro’s workshop instead of the palace. Once he was there, well, Feanaro spent most of his days in a forge. Nolofinwe spent most of his days in the palace. It wasn't hard to hold him down long enough to loop some rope around the chair’s arms.

It was disturbing how little he had to pay the palanquin carriers not to comment on any of this, really. Feanaro wasn’t sure he would trust one to carry him ever again.

“What in all of Arda are you thinking?” Nolofinwe finally managed to spit out.

“I need to work,” Feanaro explained calmly. If the Valar weren’t going to help, he was sure he could construct some way out of this himself. He should have done it from the start.

“And, what, you couldn’t be bothered to go to the audience, but you couldn’t bear to let me be there either?” There was venom in Nolofinwe’s voice, but there was also bewilderment.

Feanaro supposed that if he was being fair, he couldn’t blame him.

“I’ll explain everything tomorrow,” he promised.

“You can’t possibly think I’ll agree to that,” Nolofinwe said.

Feanaro awoke in his own bed, having learned that it was possible to accidentally suffocate someone with a gag.

It was the second time he’d killed Nolo.

Deep breath. Try again. Drugs, this time. He’s use drugs.

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

“Tyelkormo,” he asked, “what would you use to put a man wounded on a hunt to sleep? And how much?”

All three of his sons blinked at him.

“Good morning, Atar,” Maitimo said dryly.

“I guess it depends on his size?” Tyelkormo said.

Makalaure kept humming.

“How much would you give someone your eldest half-uncle’s size?”

Maitimo abruptly stopped brushing Tyelkormo’s hair.

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

“Good morning all,” he said in the kitchen. “Tyelkormo, can I speak to you alone?”

Tyelkormo, at least, was sensible enough not to mind a little bit of kidnapping.

The problem was, even once he’d figured out how to keep Nolofinwe safely out of the way while he worked, the work stubbornly refused to progress. He had no idea what he was doing, no idea where to even start, and no one to ask.

It didn’t help that the work kept resetting every day.

Or that Nolofinwe kept finding stranger and stranger ways to die.

Alright. So he needed help. He would have to tell someone the truth about this and hope for the best.

He thought about telling Atar.

Of course, that would mean tell him about how all of this had started.

He decided it would be better to start with some scholars instead.

“Rumil,” he asked, “what do you know of time?”

Rumil looked up from his studies. “Feanaro,” he said wearily, “you have already reconstructed our entire system of writing. I beg you, leave our system of timekeeping alone. I don’t care how much more logical your new system is.” He paused, curiosity lighting. “Well,” he conceded, “I might care a little bit. What are you thinking?”

Feanaro waved this aside. “Not our system for it,” he said. “Time itself. It’s progression. How could that be altered?”

Rumil buried his head in his hands. “Feanaro,” he repeated, “I beg you, leave our linear progression of time alone.” 

Feanaro waited.

Rumil sighed. “Or, if you cannot, at least include my name on whatever paper you’re writing. Let me hear your thoughts so far.”

Feanaro awoke in his own bed. He wondered how Nolofinwe had died.

“Rumil,” he asked, “what do you know of - “

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

He was halfway to the hall of scholars when -

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

“This is a pattern,” he realized.

Which meant this hadn't been set up and left alone; someone was directing this for some purpose. Which meant he could track them down and -

Feanaro awoke in his own bed. He resented that, since he hadn’t even had a chance to get out of it the last time.

For the first time in a week, he decided to go the audience.

“Two sons at least thou hast to follow thy words!”

“I had not realized your sisters stood with me, Nolofinwe, but I am delighted to hear it,” Feanaro said.

Last he’d heard, Lalwen and Findis were both staying with the Vanyar and determinedly staying out of this, but it was still satisfying to see Nolofinwe walk back his misstep. 

“Two sons at least thou hast to follow thy words!”

“Then where is Arafinwe?” Feanaro made a show of looking around. “Can he not speak for himself?” He paused. “He did follow our father’s orders and come today, did he not?”

He had not. No doubt he had a very plausible excuse, but Arafinwe was also very determinedly staying out of this.

“Two sons at least thou hast to follow thy words!”

“You have three if that’s what you want,” Feanaro said. “But when you raised _me,_ you told me you didn’t want blind obedience, you wanted heirs who could _think.”_

It was . . . wearying to have the same argument over and over again. The pain of the words had dulled somewhat, and so had his anger. He was just . . . tired.

Feanaro awoke in his own bed. He moved as sluggishly as he had the first day, but today he did not head to kitchen.

Instead, he went to the palace.

“Tell my father I would beg a private audience with him before today’s session,” he told a guard quietly.

The request, of course, was granted. He was ushered into his father’s study almost immediately.

Feanaro couldn’t bear to look at him.

“Atar,” he said. “I have done something terrible. And now I don’t know how to stop it.”

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

Apparently, it was easier for his father to believe that his son had succumbed to delirium than to a curse.

Maybe he had.

But if he hadn’t -

If he hadn’t, then what next?

Think of it logically. Someone had caused this, probably one of the Valar. They were obviously monitoring it, waiting for -

Waiting for what?

The days always lasted longest when he spent them with Nolofinwe.

“Nolofinwe,” he said.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?” Nolofinwe asked.

Feanaro waved this irrelevant question aside. “I apologize for killing you.”

“You _what?”_

Nolofinwe lasted a surprisingly length of time on that day. Perhaps he was on the right track; maybe there was something he needed to say.

Feanaro started making a list.

A mental list, but a list nonetheless.

He tried apologizing to Nolofinwe for everything he could think of. 

Nolo died in his arms, blood spilling out.

He tried apologizing to the Valar.

Nolo died gasping for breath, hand reaching for Feanaro.

He tried calling Nolofinwe his brother.

Nolo’s bones broke like twigs and snapped through his skin while he gurgled in pain and red-flecked foam emerged from his lips.

He tried telling Nolofinwe he loved him.

Nolo -

Nolo.

Oh, Nolo.

Feanaro woke up in his bed.

He buried his face in his pillow and refused to get up.

He ignored the knocks that tentatively arrived at his door.

He ignored everything until Maitimo walked in, sat on the bed, and said, in an almost frightened voice, “Atar?”

“Sit with me,” Feanaro said hoarsely. “Please.”

“Of course,” Maitimo said at once. “We’ve a little time before the audience still - “

“No,” Feanaro said. “Don’t - please. Just - “ He took a deep breath. He needed to be strong for Maitimo. He needed to -

But Maitimo would never remember he had broken.

“Would you sing for me?” he whispered.

Maitimo startled. “Wouldn’t you rather I called for Makalaure?”

“Your voice is lovely too,” he said.

He stayed there, clinging to his son’s hand and hating himself until -

Feanaro awoke in his own bed. Alone.

How long had it been, he wondered, since he had seen his other sons?

They were away from Tirion at the start of this, and most were too far to reach, but Curufinwe -

Yes. He could see Curufinwe again.

“Makalaure!” he called as he rose from the bed. “Get ready! We’re going on a ride.”

He never made it out of the city before he woke up in his own bed.

Feanaro very calmly walked down to the kitchen and very calmly took a log from the hearth.

He very calmly used it to set his bed alight.

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

“Nolofinwe,” he said, “come with me, please.”

Nolofinwe looked taken aback by the courtesy. Feanaro had made an effort this time; he was waiting outside Nolofinwe’s house instead of breaking into his chambers.

“Why?” Nolofinwe asked warily.

_Why is it red, why does it hurt, why can’t I lick it, will you kiss it better like Atar -_

“Because you can have the crown,” Feanaro said. “I’ll step down as Atar’s heir if that’s what this is going to take. But you have to come with me if you want it.”

Nolofinwe gaped at him.

It wasn’t hard to get him to come with Feanaro after that.

Feanaro took him to the rooftop gardens over the scholars' hall and made sure they stayed far away from the edge. Things were safe here. Calm. They were the only people present, Feanaro had made sure of that. It was as safe as he could make it. He only had to get Nolofinwe through one day. One day, and fate would be broken.

He let Nolofinwe take the lead in conversation, agreeing to anything, too busy watching for stray roots and falling branches to care about anything else until Nolofinwe stopped moving.

“Something’s wrong,” Nolofinwe said, but Feanaro couldn’t find the danger, couldn’t see - “Feanaro, what’s happened to you? What’s going on?”

Feanaro tried to laugh. 

It didn’t work very well.

“I’m going mad,” he said. It felt true enough.

Nolofinwe’s eyes widened.

And then a tree branch cracked, and -

Feanaro awoke in his bed. He grimly set out for Nolofinwe’s house with a rope.

It was time to reconsider the possibilities inherent in tying Nolofinwe to a chair for a day. Surely he could watch him well enough then.

The chair broke.

Nolo choked on water.

On air.

On his own blood.

On -

Feanaro awoke in his own bed.

Maybe, he thought, maybe this isn’t a chance to change anything. Maybe this is a lesson that there are some things even I can’t change. Maybe this won’t end until I -

Feanaro did not get out of bed for three resets.

Feanaro awoke in his bed.

Feanaro went to the audience.

He was carrying his sword.

He burst into the room and said his lines from the very first time he had done this through the bile that was rising in his throat.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, and he fell to his knees and spewed it all up. There was an outcry as people rushed around him, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

None of this mattered because he couldn’t do it again. Not even to end this.

Feanaro awoke in his bed and thought, someone has to die.

Someone has to die, and I can’t kill Nolofinwe. Not on purpose. Not again.

He made wings in his workshop and attached wires to them. Gears. Little canisters filled with whatever he had on hand. They wouldn’t work, of course, there was no sense involved in any of it, but he imagined they would smash nicely after the - test. No one would ever piece them back together well enough to realize the wings had worked exactly as intended.

He needed an excuse, that was all. Something so his children wouldn’t think he had abandoned them on purpose.

That was exactly what he was doing, he realized, and he had to stop a moment in shame because he could not, he would not -

But what life was this for them, forever living one day over and over, never progressing?

It was all the stagnation he had accused Aman of being except worse.

He was freeing them all with this.

He would not do it off his own roof. He would not ruin the memory of their home that way. He went to the hall of scholars instead. He could fly from the roof there as easily as anywhere. He had tested projects there often enough before. People would believe it as long as the Valar kept their mouths shut, and they would owe that to him, after this.

They could have their blood price, but they would keep their mouths _shut._

He had not counted on Nolofinwe finding him there just as he was fitting his arms into the wings.

“What are you doing here?” he asked numbly.

“You passed me on the street,” Nolofinwe said. “You didn’t stop when I called.”

Had he? He hadn’t realized.

“I hadn’t realized you were working on aviation,” Nolofinwe said. 

“It’s new,” Feanaro said in a hollow voice. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow - He couldn’t quite hold back a desperate laugh. Oh, tomorrow. Would it ever dawn?

“I think I would rather hear it today,” Nolo said, and there was something strange in his voice. “Why don’t you step away from there and tell me?”

And he knew, or knew something at least, and Feanaro could not bear to do this even one more time, so he stepped away and said, “Tomorrow,” as he leaped from the edge.

“No!”

A hand reached after him, a body sprang after him, and the two were tangled together, falling together, and this wasn’t what he’d wanted, and -

Feanaro woke up on cold earth, his arms entangled around Nolofinwe.

They were in the center of a circle of Maiar, he realized distantly.

At the moment, he was too busy appreciating the cold hard ground and the very much alive - and apparently shouting - Nolofinwe to care.

There had been a trial, he remembered now. For - for threatening Nolo, not killing him, it hadn’t gone wrong, or not that wrong at least. And he had chosen this instead of exile, and Nolofinwe, ever reasonable, ever infuriatingly helpful, had stepped up and -

And something must have gone very wrong, because the dream had not been supposed to stretch on for that long. He suspected that whatever was wrong had something to do with the fact that it was only the Maiar around them and not the Valar that had approved this mess.

Nolofinwe was still shouting, he realized dimly. On - Feanaro’s behalf, actually, which was nice, if somewhat bewildering.

In a moment, he thought he might rather like to start shouting himself.

But for now -

For now he sat on the blissfully hard ground and looked up at the bright sky that was most definitely not in Tirion and hoped it would not be too terribly long until the next Mingling if only so he could be entirely certain that tomorrow had arrived.


End file.
